Half Demon Channeler
by NFMaredzenian
Summary: Devil May Cry & Wheel Of Time. In the absolute climax of a fight, a strange phenomenon occurred. The twins find themselves separated but in the same other-world of oddities. Arkham's location is questionable...
1. Twisted Portals

**Half-Demon Channeler**

Fish Foot Note: I don't know if anyone's had this idea yet – I mean, who reads the Wheel of Time series _and_ plays Devil May Cry 3 – but still, it's possible. I kept mentioning WOT in early chapters of Do My Calculations anyway. The WOT series belong to Robert Jordan and Capcom owns DMC3. I own the character Thwane, though.

The Beginning: Twisted Portals

Dante spat sand after defeating the Hells that emerged in a hallway a door away from the Skull Spire. Once he placed the Crystal Skull in its slot where it was missing, though, he made his way through.  
He sighed, as Rudra would put it. He had not expected a long, peaceful walk to the top of the tower. A bit of fun would have been welcome if he had to show his brother how strong he had grown since they last met.

For some reason, he felt determination when he ascended the steps to the highest circular dueling floor of the tower.  
"You showed up." His mirror image in blue turned to face him fully.

He walked forth and gave a sort of a shrug. "You sure know how to throw a party. No food, no drinks, and the only babe just left."  
"My sincerest apologies, brother. I was so eager to see you I couldn't concentrate on preparations for the bash."  
Vergil started walking, but not toward the person he was talking to. He circled to his left.  
Dante also circled to his side to stay opposite of his supposed brother, sensing that a clash of weapons will take place soon enough.

"Whatever. At any rate, it's been a whole year since we last met. How about a kiss from your brother?"  
Vergil hoped he was just kidding, no matter how gentle he sounded. His brother is a weakling for peace anyway.  
"Or better yet, a kiss from _this_?" Dante pointed his more preferred gun – Ivory – at him.  
So bitterness is not forgotten after all.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain grew heavier.

"So, this is what they call a heartwarming family reunion, eh?"  
His good humor disappeared. His blue eyes pierced directly into the other owner of the same eyes.  
"You got that right." Vergil released Yamato from its long, thin scabbard.

* * *

Despite having gone separate ways after that one year, their strengths are as identical as their faces. Dante was in shape; he could probably admit that if his annoying twin did not employ the use of his handguns.  
He managed to prove so when he arranged the four bullets on the floor with Yamato before sweeping them back full-force towards Dante.  
Seeing this, Dante swung Rebellion down vertically, slicing each slug into identical halves, or so his eyes inspected.

"Why do you refuse to gain power?" Vergil began speaking again. "The power of our father Sparda?"  
"Father?" Dante stood up; wielding Rebellion had been pretty heavy a job that it brought him down sometimes. He scoffed: "I don't have a father. I just don't like you, that's all."

He believed Dante just wanted to mess with him in this, as he mentioned in the latter sentence. Having his hair down is a discomfort, but he could not afford to be a pretty-boy in the middle of a fight.

The two charged forth in unison. Thin Yamato and hefty Rebellion met, forming a spark at the point of friction.

In a split-second the corner of his lips quirked; his brother overestimated the advantage his sword gave him. His arms turned out to be more dexterous, having practiced with Yamato more often before. The lighter blade brought Rebellion up and away at the latter's point of balance, giving the wielder no chance to hold on.

As the sword flew overhead, he thrust Yamato where he aimed its point; Dante's gut.

But Dante's gut seemed awkwardly guarded as he felt nothing piercing through his bare skin.  
Something bluish or purplish was there, just the size of Yamato's hilt opening, swallowing the blade.

"What the –"

Vergil was stuck in a moment of bewilderment. He tugged the blade out of there, but in his hurry, the momentum of his pull sent him walking backward into a different vortex, this one in red and large enough to swallow him whole.

Dante snatched Rebellion from the air, but held his breath unconsciously when the red portal-like thing vanished from his view. He blinked and started looking all around for another, suddenly feeling concern for safety rather than the pursuit of his brother's blood.  
Finally another round swirl sprang up, this one in icky, poison green smack in the middle of the round courtyard. It could fit a king-sized bed by its size, so to be quick, Dante skidded down the first yard of the vortex's radius; the wet surface of the floor helped him greatly in this.

Once his whole body was consumed by the vortex, everything became a mix of myriad colors and specks or shapes. He could no longer tell up from down, or which way the wind blew.

* * *

Arkham's two-colored eyes widened when he could no longer feel the presence of the power-driven offspring of Sparda. He hurried out of the reading room and ascended the steps to the courtyard.  
Leftover blood from dueling wounds was the only sign of life that dotted the area. Apart from those, even the remains of their warm breath were gone.

The bald human kneeled down to study the footsteps marked by specks of half-demon blood to see if they had fallen off the tower. No; the slenderer boots seemed to have taken flight without landing. The tougher ones have made a slide into nothingness.  
He gave a light sniff. When he stood from his position, however, he seemed to be looking into a different place, one he knew not of. He held onto his tome as he floats to oblivion.

Six unknowing men inspected the area, regardless of the creatures that lurked.  
"Guys, this looks like a kick-ass place to shoot our music video," a blonde man in spectacles remarked to his five friends, looking up at the whale-like beast flying overhead.  
They nodded and made their own positive exclamations in approval.

* * *

So the Dragon Reborn had declared some sort of amnesty toward all men that can channel as long as they aid him in the war against the Shadow. So the Lord of the Morning trusted the for-a-time False Dragon from Saldaea to become a teacher of those who are able to learn and remain sane long enough until the Last Battle comes.

'So what?' Thwane Aromari wondered.  
As long as he had his hollow wooden six-stringed instrument with him and an idea of where his next destination is, he lives and breathes without a bar; not even Darkfriends would take him down as they would wish he was by their side most of the time.

In the past, he has sung of the way kings and queens and rulers oppress the people and how the people had the strength to stand up against them if they had the will. He sang that cowards of change are cowards of freedom, and that peace is a front, a delusion.  
But he sang of how wars or things of the sort wrecked people, too. He even wrote songs of Whitecloaks bothering with people who can never be comfortable with them, and that if they are uncomfortable with false faith in the Light, let them be.

Thwane Aromari is not as young as he used to be, and he has gotten tired of undergoing disguises, fake names and the shame of not having an occupation.

As he crosses the currently dry, barren countryside of Andor, carrying the instrument in a black cloth on his cloaked back – he did not know why he still wore a cloak – he looked for a shelter from the bright sun.  
There was a farmhouse in the distance, probably less than a hundred or so paces from where he slowly treads the earth at the moment. He tried to examine and size it up through the steaming heat, but he knew it was not a mirage.

Thwane started striding with enthusiasm until a blood-red object fell from the cloudless sky.

* * *

Warmth is the first thing that hit him in the face. It was not the warmth of comfort, but that of sweltering heat. The air was so hot he could barely feel the baking heat of the gravelly ground his back lay on.

He really wished he had remained on top of Temen-Ni-Gru earlier, but then again, he might be the only one able to lead Vergil back from… wherever this place is.

Standing up, he saw that the place could not be his planet of origin, what with the odd-looking trees; were they alive, he was sure they are hardly anything like those back home.

He looked around for someone to ask directions from and saw a bemused man shouldering a guitar bag.  
'Dude might know something if he's a guitarist.' Thoughts of optimism rose.

The slightly shorter man with golden-brown hair and dark blue eyes did not appear as eager as he is about meeting another person in the middle of nowhere, but he could be conscious of the kind of person he meets.  
"Ahoy there!" Dante called out.  
His silence was small uneasiness, but he would start the talk for this guy.  
"D'you happen to know any place I can ask for stuff around here?" he asked.

"Well, I can see a farm in that direction," the supposed guitarist responded, pointing to a location over Dante's shoulder.

The half-demon turned to see the farmhouse, yard and all. "Oh, so you're looking for shade, too? Alright then, let's walk together."

'With that hair, he might be Aiel for all I know – he mentioned _shade_, which I think is prominent in their speech – but he carries a sword and two… things… on his back.'  
Dante did not hear those thoughts.  
'He isn't Be'lal of the Forsaken, is he?'

* * *

Thus is the beginning of an unusual crossover. I put a bit of Linkin Park there, didn't I? I made a little connection between Temen-Ni-Gru and the music video for 'In the End'; I couldn't keep that out of my head. I grew lazy when it came to Chapter 12 of Do My Calculations, but Chapter 13 won't start until my second semester does. In the meantime this is what I'll be up to.


	2. First Sights

**Half-Demon Channeler**

I was so relieved there was at least one person who's into both of these fiction fields.  
Fish Foot Note: There are spoilers in here if readers of the book series haven't read up to Book Six, Lord of Chaos. I didn't state a spoiler earlier because there's not really an indication of specific locations there, I believe. The WOT series belong to Robert Jordan and Capcom owns DMC3. I own Thwane, though. Ryen is a characterization of a person that already exists; he shouldn't be hard to identify…

The Culture-Shock: First Sights

Vergil felt a barrel or two cushioning his back from the wooden wall of the dark place. The rebound was not enough to throw him down to the dusty stone floor, but he still crumpled down like a plastic skeleton on his left side; he still held Yamato, naked and exposed to vulnerable flesh.

He decided to keep his weapon and examine his surroundings. Breathing in room temperature, he snorted the air back out when he found that it smelled like fish. He turned to inspect a barrel and knock it a few times on its rounded side, testing its contents.  
There was ale – or at least something alcoholic – in that wooden container. He walked away from it and began looking for a way out of the room; the more he smelled fish the less he wanted to know where it came from.

A flight of stone steps along a corner ascended to a horizontal door. He had no reason to hurry, but he _hated_ the smell.

Vergil took precautions, and with that a peek out of the entrance underneath which he hides himself from revelation. He can see a variety of footwear; bare feet, boots, clogs and sandals are the most discernible.  
The feet were all either walking or standing in their place, or dangling or curved from a bent-knee position from their seats. Seeing no fancy footwear typically worn by noblemen or people with higher rank, he decided it was safe to step outside as subtly as possible.  
Then again, there was the matter of the owner of the bar or inn. It is an inn, alright.

The lazy-looking innkeeper pretended not to have seen a disturbance even if he had. Clearly he avoided trouble, for he asked Vergil when he approached: "Good day, my lord. Were you looking for accommodation within the Paper Anchor?"  
Instincts snapped in. Vergil scrambled for ideas of how to act in a place like this.  
"That would have worked if I had the money," he replied.  
"Oh, surely a lord like yourself – or one I'd assume to be a lord – has more treasure than his threads are worth," the innkeeper stated.

"My story is not as simple as that, you see," Vergil told the dark-haired man as the one wearing an apron led him to a table for two.  
"I resemble a lord, I'm sure, but my riches were gone the day I am old enough to stand on my two feet. The clothes and sword I had are the only remnants of my inheritance."  
"By the Light; they made you stand on your own?"  
"Not by their own will, though. Demons took them, not at once, but one capture can easily be as painful as the other." By the Light, he is becoming a raconteur.  
The innkeeper gazed at a wall, digesting the word 'demons'. His lips looked like they would have been uttering 'trolls' or 'bollocks'. Either one, he appeared to believe the pale-haired man's story and keep things in ease anyhow.

"You wouldn't mind sleeping in the common room, do you? I mean, you can line up some chairs and lie down on the surface; I don't want you to fall off tables no matter how long they are."  
He showed no specific emotion. "That is kind of you."  
"I think of myself as conscientious sometimes, keeping a lodging spot for wanderers or peddlers roaming faraway or foreign lands. But I think most of myself as a man called Ryen Anmer," he spoke seemingly to Vergil's gloves. Half the time his mind did not seem to be present.

Being a lord might mean he had to have hailed from a house of some sort, so he experimenting with fabrication.  
"My name is Vergil. I am of House Sparda."  
Ryen did not recognize that name, so he appears, but then again, he is not one to look brilliant.

"Still of noble blood, then, aren't you? For a moment I almost took you for High Lord Samon, but I highly doubt he'd come to my mess of an inn."  
"Tell me about this High Lord." His commanding voice suited that of what he passes for.  
"So far I know that he's a tall man with really short white hair and he used to rule Tear along with the other High Lords before the Dragon Reborn claimed the Stone. Rumor used to have it that he's actually one of the Forsaken – that one, Be'lal – and that an Aes Sedai escort to the Dragon Reborn had him balefired to oblivion. How wild was that story?"

Vergil shrugged, not knowing how to squeeze his finger on it.

* * *

There were women as well at the farmhouse, only that most of them wore clothes that fit a harsh and dry environment.  
'He might know them,' Thwane guessed, but apparently the tall athletic man did not.

Dante felt a tension in the air; the sensation came from a tall, red-haired young man. From his coat design, he must be someone important.  
"Taim, are these voluntary entrants?" he demanded apparently of a man with a large nose wearing something less grand but still of significant status.

The latter scanned the two new faces and left the group of men trying to perform some sort of telekinesis on their own. "I know of one way I think you'd prefer to find out," he stated; he stopped walking short of the two men's personal spaces.  
He would have to make the decision on his own, whether to test the white-haired youthful-looking man or the indigent bard first.

Thwane backed a little when he came, but the Saldaean had him by the scruff of his neck. The white-haired fellow watched this with intrigue, unable to do anything at a short span of time while it happened.  
He released the man roughly, but did not push him away. "Nope – he can't channel," he told the man in a fancy coat.

"Channel?" Dante asked. He stood his ground and felt something running through him like electricity through a circuit. No sooner than he gasped the man let go.  
"This is nothing like I've encountered. The weaving is intricate, and there seems to be a bar to his ability to channel," said the man called Taim.

* * *

Weaving.  
The word stirred something in his memory. The stranger in a trench coat looked familiar with his silvery-white hair, but putting it all together, he remembered the Netweaver, the Forsaken he encountered in Tear once. Moiraine – Light bless her soul, wherever she might be – used balefire on the Forsaken, but if the Dark One has found a way to resurrect a balefired man…

Rand did not know what to make of him. Lews Therin is making the strangest sorts of noise in his head, ranging from squeaking in fear to laughing with relief. He refused to let the madman's voice plague him and interfere with judgment.

"What's this channeling ability thing I've been hearing from you guys?"  
His speech differs from that of the Seanchan. He had an accent about him that just tells how lightly he uses the language.

"He doesn't appear to be of this world," Taim told him.  
The man concerned frowned; clearly this is not the first time he faces an awkward situation.  
The other looked confused at this, obviously having never met anyone from another _world_, even after his life of venturing other lands.

"Do we have to explain everything?" Rand swallowed at the possibility of that.  
Taim rolled his eyes and sighed; his role as a teacher has provided him some skills for dealing with the new and strange.

* * *

Vergil sat in a corner of the Paper Anchor, not only watching the happenings around him, but also eavesdropping on every conversation he found helpful and detailed. It was the best he can do when he wanted to rest unnoticed and learn of this otherworldly background at the same time.

Some human women tried to 'entertain' him, but he was not the type to sleep around with strangers. Besides, he only _looked_ rich. He can promise them nothing.

He might have to get out of there as soon as possible if he wanted to find Dante and demand an explanation. It really wasn't likely that he did it, but Vergil could only blame him anyway. Arkham was too absorbed in his arts to have actually done something like this.

But to get out of here, he needed monetary wealth. There are various ways to get gold, silver or copper here, but while gambling is an easy choice, he did not even have a copper penny to begin with, and he would not ask the innkeeper for money no matter what the man said. He could try working for Ryen, though, but if he proved worthy, that would tie him to the place forever. He would not go as low as picking pockets or cutting purses, given the number of thief-takers in the area.  
There is the chance that he can purchase a steed afterward anyways, other than traveling food, but where would he go from there? As uncomfortable as it is, crammed in a room with tens of other people with their imaginative chatter, traveling might make him miss the plate of smoked fish and the chop-and-fried potatoes Mishal – Ryen's significant other – served him. Besides, sleeping on lined-up chairs is more appealing than sleeping on rocky ground cushioned by a thin layer of canvas.

Ryen smiled at him from his part of the counter. He only nodded back as a result of not being attached enough to human customs.  
'I'd hate to be ungrateful – there has to be something I could do for him before I leave without saying goodbye, and that already added to the owing,' Vergil considered.

He could probably roam around town in the middle of the night when Ryen sleeps. From there, he might be able to scavenge silver pennies that people carelessly dropped while bargaining with a wheat-supplier or a gold crown that, by chance, got stuck between the wheel and axle of an ox cart.  
In the end, he did.

* * *

Guess where I found the name for the Tairen inn!  
I wasn't sure whether it's parallel to the book, but this is fan fiction, after all. And when the hell would Dante get his Devil Trigger?  
Couldn't figure out much for Arkham at the moment, though...


	3. Bards and Troll Locks

**Half-Demon Channeler**

Those without liking for alternate universes may quit reading, but those who do may proceed and enjoy.  
Fish Foot Note: I've been thinking of having this fic moved back into the X-over category because it's my mistake to think that there are more people who play DMC than read WOT than those who read that also play the game. Maybe delving too deep into the universe has lost me the sense that this fic isn't as versatile. I intend that readers and reviewers of this fic know both side so that there's no confusion.  
A big 'Thanks' to Skykhanhunter for the trigger and the rest of the reviewers for everything.  
The WOT series belong to Robert Jordan, may his soul forever walk in the Light. And Capcom owns DMC3. I own Thwane, though. Metallica owns their respective songs.

The Other Introduction: Bards and Troll Locks

The guns-and-sword wielder felt like he had been brainwashed after all that lecture, and following his mental rest, he will have to learn the names of the important people in the place, or places; the redhead in a fine coat can make gateways and help other people travel through them.

His name was Rand al'Thor and he is the proclaimed Dragon Reborn. To Dante, when he hears the word 'dragon', he can only call to mind the mythical creature with four legs, a buff figure, a spiny tail and a head large enough to snap a cow in half. And not forgetting his belief that dragons breathe fire.  
But the Dragon banner depicted a somewhat more classical version of the mythological creature, long-bodied and spiny all the way with mustaches and beards, and big eyes.  
Dante could not picture Rand as a dragon himself, but the name appears enough to mark him as one of the most prominent rulers of the current age.

Before he knows any other name, he would like to know the first man in this medieval world who had found and met him. Thwane Aromari is not as fragile as he makes others think he is. In fact, the unrevealed half-demon witnessed first hand the way he strums the metal strings of his guitar with a bone plectrum. The Lord Dragon has not witnessed this yet.

Next to be known is Mazrim Taim, the Saldaean man who can test men for their ability to channel the One Power. He and Rand both had to go through the concept explanation with Dante, who was not exposed enough to this kind of culture. To him, magic is magic, and demons can use demon magic. In public, he still cannot let the ruler-man to know that he is only half human.

After the middle-aged male channeler came a man of war: Marshal-General Davram Bashere. Bashere has led his Saldaean troops to Andor in search of the False Dragon Mazrim Taim to capture him, but his actions are cut short by the real Dragon's need to have a teacher for men who can channel. Speaking of soldiers, a childhood friend by the name of Mat crossed Rand's mind. He also seems to be a person of great significance during his time around here – were Rand to explain _ta'veren_ on the same day as the stranger's transition to a new world, he might faint of the information overload.

So far Rand has conquered some lands somewhere, and to manage those places he can teleport there the way he always does. The names of the nations alone made a twist of consciousness in Dante's mind.  
'Maybe Vergil could adapt to this kind of place,' the holder of the silver amulet-half assumed as Rand introduces him to the Maidens. They are pretty women, most of them. It seems they area all trained in combat and taught some sort of hand language that other societies do not use and cannot understand. Some of the younger women, or those about his age, did whisper to one another about 'singing' and 'Maiden's Kiss'.

Perhaps admiring the Maidens' appearance would ease his adaptation into the world of darkness and light, even if he didn't do it openly.

* * *

He left the gold crown in his usual seat in the inn, which is the corner of it. That would be the least he can pay Ryen for treating him so well.  
Now he needs a destination, unless that can wait until after he gets a horse. He has his way with the beasts as he is the more traditional of the twins.

Vergil began walking north, having differentiated which way it is when the sun set some hours earlier. It is not hard to endure long distances when he inwardly acknowledges himself as a demon; there was nobody around him to see it at the moment anyway.  
He decided it would pay to play safe when he turned to see a small group of people – who seemed smaller because of the way they moved – tailing him whilst trying not to make any sound he might hear.  
They were wrong; he can hear those soft taps loud and clear.

The foremost of them dashed forward at the turn he made which indicated he knew they were there. He took a knife seemingly out of nowhere and tried to stab Vergil, but the pale-haired liveried man just grasped the wrist of the hand that held the killing object. Taking out Yamato would be a waste if he had to use the sword on petty footpads. Something snapped against that wrist, a mechanism that held the knife in the assassin's sleeve.

Vergil gathered half of his strength to shove the man against his own underlings and let them fall like bowling pins. If they still wanted to go after him, he might have to resort to martial arts; he never really mentioned how his father taught him things that take sword-fighting to the next level.  
When he turned around, though, there were walls of armor mail made of black steel blocking him, supported by hoofed or clawed feet. Beaked or snouted faces with ram horns looked down at him, dark eyes sunken. After seeing Hells, the Abyss and other nasty things brought up in Temen-Ni-Gru, these jerks don't have to perturb him.

'What did I do to deserve being surrounded by freaks like these?' he wondered, clenching his fists with his arms by his sides. It was an instinct to show that he was unafraid of the unknown, which he will soon know.  
One of the beasts advanced by a step of its large leg. He needed room if he were to keep fighting.  
With a flash he jumped and stood atop the shoulders of one of those things; the creatures apparently belonged to the same species despite their variety of ugly features. Shocked, the creature he stood on raised its horned head, but soon one of the others began coming closer.

A huddle. That could be an advantage to him.

He lightly kicked off the beast and drew out Yamato, its demon-wrought blade shining in anticipation of battle. He dashed through the cluster and sliced a sum of three targets.  
There are at least two more to go. Of course, that being estimation, there are actually four that survived when he took a longer look around.  
But he needed not worry. Crude steel clanged against the refined sword for a brief moment, but there is an advantage to taking control of the whole situation. It gave a good chance of ending up victorious and alive.

With only the slightest patch of dark blood soaking the sleeve on his left underarm this time, he reviewed his most recent kill from a distance. By a crude degree, they seem to have a structured way of trying to take him prisoner. Obviously they weren't prepared to meet someone who – according to Ryen the absentminded innkeeper – deserves a heron-mark on his sword.  
His own advice told him that it is better _not_ to let others know he could be counted as a master swordsman; the magnificence of Yamato has shown enough how he stands out from the figurative crowd of sword-wielders.

There was movement on the roof of one of the Tairen buildings, but as much as he squinted, it faded a few seconds after. The ripple reminded him of the Hell Vanguard back at Temen-Ni-Gru. 'Could it be?' he wondered, but remembered that he had to keep on course if he is to know more of this world so that he can return to the one in which he belongs.

A worn old signboard said 'You Are Now Leaving Tear' before he crosses the invisible border of the place.

* * *

Rand gave them one room to share, one narrow bed for each man. It suited Thwane, but Dante is not a stationary sleeper. The latter complained more anyway when the Lord Dragon left, and Thwane had to bear the burden of listening to an outsider vent. "This really ain't right. Maybe when I wake up after an uncomfortable sleep, I can almost be sure that I'm home," the bright-haired man remarked.

Not quite grasping this sense of humor, Thwane took out his instrument and sat on his bed, the one that is closer to the door than the window. He did not know why the arrangement troubled the outsider until Dante remarked that it reminded him of a hospital, a building meant for housing the sick, plagued or ill.

For a guest-room in the Palace of Caemlyn, the place looked more practical than decorative. Most of the things that provided color in this place are tablecloths and mats, cushions for chairs, the silver-trimmed mirror next to the coat-hooks, the quilted covers of their beds and a rack of old books that might have been disposed to make room for a lounging area in a library or something.  
Apart from these things, the room was wood and white walls. Thwane strummed a chord, mentally chuckling at how he wished he could add color with some music.

"Are there more guitars where you came from?" Dante asked, a little tense from the sight out the window that will not change.  
"I didn't get this instrument from my place of origin. I traveled places and looked for excitement, and I found something I can never part with: music." He began playing a clean, repetitive riff to add the enthusiasm factor to his life story. "I found the guitar when I was in Cairhien; it was the Festival of Lights, then, and the merchants are wild. I was about half-wild at the time as well, so I just bought this. Not many bards or gleemen would take to this stringed instrument for the following reasons: the harp is more elegant; the lute is slenderer thus takes up less space; and the look of this guitar itself is crude."

He began strumming slowly to a riff Dante almost found familiar. "I always prefer to be the different one, you know? I've always been a rebel. Where there is order, I wanted to counter it, but if countering goes against my way of life, I'd follow order and hope I'd survive with some shred of dignity."

Dante nodded, then sat at his bed, opposite from his roommate. "Can I have a go at that?" he asked, extending a hand.  
Thwane looked at him cautiously, less than willing to part with the wood-and-steel instrument.  
"I know how to play one from my world – it's a little complicated, but you can say there's a bit of lightning running through the strings when you play it," he explained.  
"Alright, but please use the plectrum on mine. Just to be safe," said the bard.

"Yeah, yeah…" the half-demon muttered, amused by this concern. Of course, he would feel the same about Rebellion, and his guns. He adjusted his posture to reassure the man and held the plectrum as any player of the instrument would. He began playing one of the earliest riffs he knew of. "Back where I'm from, this song's called 'Enter Sandman'," he said.

The guitar's owner firmed his face in concentration. "There's a similar tune I've heard before I got chased out of – where is it again – Amador? Over there, I think they call it 'Fearful Prayers'," he recalled.  
"Was that the reason why you got chased out?"  
"No; it was the final straw when I started playing 'Marionette Player'."

When he made that connection, Dante wanted to laugh.


End file.
